Okay, I just thought you guys would like to hear this. The first part is mostly backstory and such, but the fun starts halfway trough, the end is written more like a story, I couldn't help myself, I had to. Sorry for my rather mediocre English (EDIT: and the wall of text, oh god so much more than I wanted to write) but feel like writing this down, so here I go.
I decided to build a fortress in a red sand desert with adjacent grassland tile (+aquifer). The wagon arrived there in the year 211, everything alright.
Fast forward to spring 221. Decisions were made, immigrants arrived, the glorious army was found, a fortress build, the stockpiles can barely hold the 3000 drinks and 2500 prepared meals the ought to contain. After the fortress itself was completed the dwarves of Ownswords, 62 souls of all ages and professions, decided to erect an all-glass-window tower in the fortress's center. It was meant to bear two swords on each side, swords as a symbol for dwarven pride and, of course, the fortress.
This is what the keep looked like before the downfall (note the unfinished tower):
Even though vile Goblins and, much worse, Orks roamed the countryside I decided to play the hard way, without raising bridges or other instant lock-the-fortress mechanisms. Only dwarven steel (read that as "reforged goblin iron") and bravery stand between the civilians and certain death... most of the time, that is.
Orks came as early as the first winter and then, and in the years that followed, walling myself in was the only way to keep them away. Walling in as in "Run Urist, run! Be swift as the winds you produce after eating too many Plump helmets! Build that wall or we are all done for! ... Yes! Yes, you made it! All hail Urist, hero of Ownswords who ... build a wall ... and stands on the wrong side right now... eh, idiot". No drawbridges, no floodgates.
Immigrants brought many pets, some of them are welcome, who couldn't warm his heart for a good horse-meat roast or a delicious cow-tallow roast? But they also brought cats. And the cats brought kittens. They were adopted, grew up and made more of their kind. As their population increased, the FPS decreased.
I made a cunning plan to get rid of them, a pet consuming abomination was build, 5 levers, 30 doors and 25 spikes it contained.
After it was completed in early 221 I ordered the worst offender the fortress bears to be stationed inside the chamber at the end of the long corridor that was to be filled with blood and the screams of the dying... pets that is.
Long story short, the catlady (who is actually a cat"sir") arrived and his precious pets followed him. They died horribly, what a success. It was then that I noticed that killing all his pets might not have been such a smart idea, with him being the mayor since 215 or so. And sure, he was pissed, but I thought he would get over it quick enough and I managed to kill some more cats, the other dwarves were only mildly offended, no problems.
Soon after the massacre the mayor decided to ease his pain by destroying a bed. No problem, I thought, what could go wrong? "Urvad Hatchettones" could go wrong, as it appears. He is one of the starting seven and has been captain of the guard since the guard was found... and is also the only member. He decided it would be a great idea to order a beating and 26 days of prison. Since he was the sole enforcer of law he did not hesitate to do the dirty work all by himself. The dwarves had to scrape the poor mayor off the floor after the legendary Miner/Mason/Engraver was done with him. Ooops.
I guess I don't need to spell out what happened then, as a tantrum spiral is a common enough thing to see. The only thing I feel I have to mention is that Urvad the enforcer found a lot of work outside of his mines and masonry workshops.
Since I had enough food and drinks for years, and a legendary dining room and meeting hall on top of it, the spiral was over with only mediocre damage. Out of 62 inhabitants, 25 (or so) were left, among them Urvad, with a broken hand, 10 Marksdwarves, 6 champions and the rest civilians. Sure, I had to deactivate the soldiers (almost all Marksdwarves) to feed the wounded since most civilians were incapacitated and starving, but it was going to be all right. Right? Hell no.
Urvad decided to heal just in time to see the fortress save and secure once more, with the tantrum spiral over and the wounded in good care. Then he decided that it's time to slap a bitch. After striking down a champion and some civilians, which caused another champion and some deactivated soldiers to go mental, he sat down and ate one of the fortress's fine cat-tallow roasts. He probably thought something like "Hmm... cat. Totally worth the trouble!"
The whole mess calmed down after a while, live continued as usual. The dwarven caravan arrived in autumn and was greeted with gifts and left with a huge profit, the fortress had to attract new immigrants, after all. A drawbridge was build because I felt like I had enough tragedy for now.
Well, the dwarves never managed to link a lever to it, the Orks were faster. Four squads of them arrived and I thought I could at least close the gate by building walls again. Of course, I had taken on Ork sieges without having to resort to tricks and barricades, but my military was rather pathetic back then.
As it turned out, flooring over the natural sand tiles with neat block floors was not the best idea I ever had. Instead of a 3 tile wide wall a 5 tile wide one needed to be build, in front of the entrance instead of inside it.
Long story short, the dwarves didn't manage to do it in time. Amongst the doomed masons was Urvad, now commonly called "the Brash Aura". He ran away as the invaders arrived, but didn't manage to get very far. Nothing remains of him, except for the names of the ones he had brought down for the just cause.
Three champions (the last one got crippled in a sparring accident - fucking idiot) and the remaining marksdwarves (six or so, but keep in mind that I had them deactivated, so they just grabbed their equipment as the orks already entered the fortress) had to face the invaders. Death was a certain.
One of of the Crossbowdwarves, known as Bim Cudgelcrafts "the Kindness of Feed", was so elitary that he refused to work back when his hands were needed elsewhere, so he was available right away. Bim poured bone bolts into the advancing Orks, with minimal effect.
Seconds later, the champions arrived. They wore the best no-quality iron plate and coper axes the fortress could give them, they were champions, after all. What they lacked in equipment they made up for in skill, all of them being legendary wrestlers with almost legendary shield, armor and axe skill.
And sure enough, dwarven will met orkish iron and the battle raged on... and on... and on. Many Orks died that day, but even more of them entered the fortress. Bim decided to meet them in hand-to-hand combat, only armed with his crossbow and clad in leather armor. What could ever go wrong?
The vile fiends quickly overran him, just in time to meet the advancing backup. Some of the other Marksdwarves managed to grab a crossbow and ammunition in time, others didn't.
It didn't matter much. As the malevolent flood of beasts still poured into the fortress 3 more of the defenders fell and the cornered civilians organized a heroic last stand, willing to take down as many as possible.
It was not meant to be. I shiver ran through the advancing horde, their assault ceased to be. For a few, precious, seconds silence filled the empty halls that had seen so much blood and despair. Like a mighty flood they had poured into the fortress. Now they were retreating like water retreats from the shore at low tide. Too many had fallen, it seems, for their liking, so they ran. Away from the defenders and civilians. Away, past Bim, who had stalled them but had to pay a high price, his right leg mangled, his left eye torn out, but he was still alive. And he watched them, with his lone eye, he watched them. Running away, away from the fortress.
Into the arms of Mistêm. Mistêm, champion of the fortress. Later he became known as "the Lucky convent of Homages", because lucky he was. He had somehow survived the onslaught, without a single scratch. And he made the Orks pay, made them pay dearly. Twenty-six invaders fell under his mighty axe of bronze. How he came to survive, or how he managed to be back at just the right time - I do not know. But for his unmatched skill, his bravery and his strength he was made the new bearer of law, keeper of all that is good and right.
The civilians and deactivated defenders busy themselves with burial and health care. Bim is carried inside the fortress, where a warm bed awaits him, so he can sleep his wounds away. The fallen are buried alongside their comrades, they, too, will sleep. Mistêm, however, enters the fortress with another goal in mind. Next to the food storage they meet. Mistêm the righteous and Monom. Monom the farmer. Poor Monom had been left in the prison as the Orks attacked, he was chained there because he had destroyed a bed and a door back in spring. Urvad had chained him there, but now he is free. Free at last. The sounds of battle and the screams of the dying had filled him with new a new rage, a purposeful hatred, against the invaders. He had ripped apart the +Rope reed Rope+ that held him, is was emerald, dyed with Bladeweed dye. One end is still attached to his neck as their eyes make contact.
"Mi... Mistêm! I'm so happy to see you alive!", Monom said, "I... I came here as I heard the battle and... I want to help, now. Bury... bury the dead or..."
"You... destroyed your rope, didn't you?"
"Sure I ... my wive died back then, and... surely you understand why I was... we... we need all hands we can get to survive, right? Right? M...Mistêm? Mistêm! What are...!?"
The champion punches Monom so hard, his body flies across the central stairway and into the wall on the other side of it. Blood and viscera rain down the central shaft as the Monoms body meets the wall and bursts open. Shattered and broken, the carcass then meets the ground with a sickening, fleshy thud.
Some workers hastily carry him away to an empty tomb, Mistêm watches them. As they disappear in the darkness he grabs into one of the pockets. His *trousers* have several of them, they are fine garments, produced in Ownswords. "Dyed emerald, just like the rope that Monom defiled so carelessly", he thought as his hands meets the soft caress of the woven Pigtail. "Where is it, I know it - Ah! There it is!".
He produces a single piece of dirtied paper and a graphite stick from his pockets. Sure, these papers carried his lunch just hours ago, but he decides that they will do. They'll have to. Mistêm is a little excited, the first papers he is allowed to fill out in his new position as keeper of law and order.
"Monom Dodóktathur, Planter", he writes. Beneath it, in sturdy dwarven runes, he adds: "Building Destruction. Sentence : Beating. Pending sentences: None". He smiles, as he is satisfied with himself, and stuffs his papers back into one pocket whilst pulling a half-eaten +cat-tallow roast+ out of the other. Gnawing and smiling he walks down the central stairs.
"Now I'll just have to find Imush and 'talk' to him about the broken bed..."
Some things.
Some things just never change.
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Topic: Ownswords - Tales of Blood and dwarven Justice (Read 1242 times)